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THE  SCARLET-VEINED 


Eno  ©tber  poems 


BY 

LUCY    CLEVELAND 

AUTHOR  OF 

1  Lotus  Life  and  other  Poems,"    "  The  Dog  of  the  Old  Guard, 
"My  Lady's  Strange  Girdle,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
A.  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  COMPANY 

103  FIFTH  AVENUE 
1897 


Copyright,  1897,  by 
THE  A.  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  COMPANY. 


Composition  and  Presswork  by 

M.,  W,  &  C.  Pennypacker 


C 


CONTENTS. 


i. 

THE  SCARLET-VEINED, 13 

II. 
VOICES  : 

FROM  HELLAS — FOR  HELLAS, 67 

VOICES  FROM  HELLAS 68 

FROM  MOUNT  OLYMPUS, 70 

MORS  JANUA  VITAE,       72 

CCBUR  DE  LION, 73 

THE  SLAVIC  BIRD, 75 

FOR  CRETE  AND  ARMENIA, 77 

VOICES 79 

ON  HISTORY'S  WALL 81 

III. 
PATRIOTIC  POEMS  : 

THE  FLAG  IN  THE  DARDANELLES, 85 

NATURE'S  VOTE, 87 


602204 

UBRART 


CONTENTS. 

IN  MEMORIAM  MACEO 88 

To  GROVER  CLEVELAND  (CHIEF  EXECUTIVE),     .    .  90 

ENGLAND'S  PET  BIRD, 92 

THE  PRIZE-WINNER 94 

EXPECTATIONS, 96 

THE  L/OFTIEST  WORD 98 

IV. 
POEMS  OF   NATURE: 

THE  SKYLARK 101 

IN  THE  ORCHARD, 104 

ROBIN'S  NEW  SONG 106 

THE  FOUNTAIN, 108 

THE  WHITE  ROSE, 109 

THE  LIGHTNING, no 

THE  NIGHT-BLOOMING  CEREUS, in 

CENTRIPETAL, 114 

i 
THE  MAYFLOWER, 116 

JUNE, 118 

POUR  ELLE 119 

HER  GIRDLE,  I., 120 

HER  GIRDLE  UNCLASPED,  II., 121 

A  ROSE 122 


CONTENTS. 

THE  POET'S  WINNINGS,      .........  123 

THE  KARNAK  LILY,       124 

THE  EGYPTIAN  OBELISK,  I., 126 

THE  EGYPTIAN  OBELISK,  II., 127 

REVELE! 128 

FOR  WHOM  ? 129 

TRANSFIGURATION,  1 130 

TRANSFIGURATION,  II 131 

ONE  MOONLIGHT,      132 

A  PRAYER, 133 

A  MEETING,      134. 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 


Ube  Supreme  poet. 

O   Thou  who  o'er   the  chasm's  ink 
Of  the   abyssmal  Void  didst  move 
In   rhythmic  breathings;  on  the  brink 
Of  the  song-worlds  all   L,ife  all  lyove 
Were    Thine,     O    burning    heart  of  the  o'er- 
brooding   Dove  ! 


O  my  Scarlet  -  Veined  a-fluttering   and  a-kin   to 

God's  great  azure, 
Stretching  strongly,  strangely,  sternly  to  dawn, 

to  dusk  to-day, 
Within  each  palm  an  ocean,  and  the  sun  itself 

obeisant 
In   crimson   beaker  pledging,  ere  it  laughs  at 

old  Bombay  ; 
The  stars   are    trooping,   envious,   over  tosses  of 

veined  oceans 
To  anchor  in   thy  lightnings,  and  to  hearken 

at  thy  knees, 
O  my  Standard,  stand  thou  strong  and  worthy, 

worthier  yet,  a  beacon 

Against   God's   upper  azure  to  the  darkening 
dynasties  ! 


Scarlet*lfleinet>. 

December  2$th,  1776. 


THE  day  was  ebbing  slow  into  that  Vast 
That  spreads  its  arms,  a  sudden  darken 

ing  blur 

lyike  an  o'ersweeping  wave  of  eagle's  wing 
Around  an  hour  moving  towards  the  dusk 
To  pass  into  the  Night,  from  whose  great  breast 
Beating  with  blood  of  stars  it  shall  arise 
New-  voiced,  fed  with  a  meteor's  battle-breath 
Of  utterance  prophetic  hurled  from  heaven 
To  startle  nations  and  illume  a  world. 

The  night  is  needful  for  the  mellowing 
Of  all  great  purpose. 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

On  the  camp  it  lies, 
The  silent  outposts  on  the  Delaware 
Where  a  young  nation  waited  for  a  morn. 
The  river  glances  with  dread  gleam,  a  white 
That  curdles   through   the  silence,  and   strikes 

chill 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  valiant  hearts 
That  watch  beside  her  waters'  corpse-like  calm, 
Her  speechless   lips    that    part,    but   speak   no 

word, 

Her  long  gray  spectre-face — Is  it  the  ghost 
Of  years  to  come,  come  Now?    The  spectre-form 
Of  a  great  people's  hopes  doomed  in  this  night 
To  die?     Will  that  dread  ghastliness  arise 
In  sheeted  horror  that  dries  up  the  blood 
Of  e'en  the  boldest  in  the  van  of  life, 
And  calls  men's  eyeballs  out.     Moving  it  comes, 
Moving  a-down  the  night,  this  sheeted  Dead, 
Its   long   bleached    finger  of   dread    bone  out 
stretched, 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Still  looming  awful,  e'en  above  the  pine 
That  holds  the  rim  of  moonlight.      The  dread 

White 
Smiles.      And  the  smile's  more  hideous  than  a 

curse. 

The  finger  beckons  to  arise  and  come. 
The  long  and  long  perspective  of  stacked  guns 
Seem,  in  this  gray  chill  mist,  to  move  and  move 
A  ghostly  caravan  of  corpses  dread 
Across  the  leagues  of  distance,  a  grim  band 
Whose  bones  are  whiter  than  the  moon's  amaze 
That  crept  and  searched  along  the  ground  last 

night, 

And  quick  withdrew,  with  lips  of  horror  pale, 
Behind  a  gibbous  cloud  that  bulged  to  laugh 
With  swollen  cheeks  at  the  lean  band  of  men 
Who  plan  to  plant  a  nation  now,  and  turn 
Thy  plethoric  scorn,  O  Britain  !    on  thyself. 

The  bivouac  at  midnight  of  the  men 

15 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Who,  from   the  wasted   troops,  have   mustered 

grit 
In  grasp  of  one  staunch  purpose :      To  plough 

through 

The  ice  of  obstacle,  yea,  and  to  meet 
Great  Death  himself,  and  from  his  hideous  hand 
Wrest  the  dread  scythe  and  wield  it  in  dread  war. 

'Tis  bivouac  at  midnight.      The  low  wind 
Sways  the  black  straps  upon  the  cartridge-box 
That's  hung  upon  the  sword ;    and  that's  the 

Cross. 

It's  planted  firm,  and  watches  dauntless  souls. 
God  moves,  the  Infinite's  Humanity, 
Towards  the  magnet  irresistible — 
Great  men.       To-night    you'll    trace   the  word 

they  wrote 

Across  the  snow's  long  ghastly  chronicle 
(Death's  mirror).      From  their  worn  feet  drop 
ped  blood 

16 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

As   on    and    on    they   marched,  yea,  though   a 

Gates 

Has  turned  his  back  on  danger,  duty ;    yea, 
Though  a  Wilkinson's  from  Bristol  fled, 
Yea,  though  a  Griffin  who  should  plant  his  grip 
Of  iron  mould,  that  sudden  spurts  in  fire, 
Within  the  flesh  of  the  great  enemy — 
Yea,  though  these  men  have  fled  the  surge 
That  mounts  in  fiery  foam  along  our  lines — 
Terraced  on  terror,  lo !    they  sit  aloof 
From  this  night's  wave  of  opportunity, 
Yet  the  great  heroes  marched.     Heroes  sublime, 
What  bell  will  ring  to  ages  your  great  shout? 
Heroes  sublime,  I  envy  ye  that  Night. 
Ye  planted  the  red  seed  we  reap  to-day 
In  golden  harvest  on  our  land's  lit  soil. 
That  blood  has  moistened  history's  old  face 
Flushed  with  new  life  this  pregnant  Christmas 

night, 
As  when,  along  the  old  Judea-roads, 

17  9- 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

The   light    from  Joseph's  lantern   dropped  red 

flecks, 

A  drip  of  blood  along  the  moonlight  snow, 
As  slowly  with  pained  feet  he  plods  along 
And  holds  the  lantern  high  to  illume  the  face 
Of   her  who'll   bear  the  Christ  in  Bethlehem's 

cave. 
Christ's   hazard-road  is  marked   with    flecks  of 

blood. 

Thus  must  it  ever  be,  O  signal  soul  ! 
'Tis  greater,  verily,  to  sow  the  seed 
Of  all  a  grand  Hereafter,  yea,  in  start 
Of  muscles'  giant  agony,  than  to  sit 
In  sun-crowned  plenty  yellowing  all  the  fields. 
Whose  is    the   crown   when    God's   voice    calls 

the    Roll? 

Darkness  upon  our  forces.       There's  no  hint 
Of  the  great  shout  when  the  great  sky  caught 
fire, 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

And  Gloria  in  Excelsis  to  the  L,ord 

Rushed  like  the  roseate  stream  from  opal-wings 

Of  the  great  Cherubim. 

The  night  shuts  down; 
No  standard  has  this  nation  save  the  light 
That  gleams  in  great  men's  eyes,  like  planets' 

fires 

When  the  pall'd  clouds  part  on  the  acres  vast, 
And  the  great  purpose  of  Immensity 
Writes  its  star-alphabet  of  record  down. 
But  night  is  needful  for  the  mellowing 
Of  their  great  purpose.      They  are  veterans. 
Their  veins  are  Puritan.       Their  muscles  bred 
To  hoist  new  standards  o'er  an  ocean's  toss ; 
Sinews  of  granite,  carved  from  out  thy  hills, 
O  thou  New  England  !    nurse  and  mother  dear, 
Who  from  thy  breast's  milk  mad'st  the  men 
To  cleave  a  path  through  the  Impossible, 
To  open  shining  doors  for  shuddering  slaves. 
19 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Though   France   hold   back,    and    Philadelphia 

fall, 

New  England  will  hold  on — and  climb  by  knee, 
By  fist,  by  teeth,  and  grapple  up  the  slope. 
Yea,  though  this  very  night  she  meet  and  close 
With  those  imposing  massive  lines  of  men 
Haloed  with  steel,  a  bayonet -torrent  broad 
That  sweeps  with  irresistible  smooth  swirl 
And   levels  e'en  the  mightiest.      Britain,  thou, 
Thy  haze  of  giant  faces,  foam  of  plumes, 
Thou  hurricane  of  valor  round  a  world  ! 

But   Pennsylvania's  woods  send   forth  her  men 
Who  stand  as  solid  as  her  beechen  trees 
Down  this  supreme  of  storm.  Yea,  Hand  is  here, 
And  holds  in  giant  palm  his  veterans 
He'll  dash  upon  thine  outposts,  Britain,  soon. 
Virginia,  too,  at  whom  colonial  lips 
Have  sometimes  curled  :  "She  breeds  but  court 
iers, 

20 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Who' re  warm  (in  wooing)  ;  skill' d  in  handling, 

fine, 

The  perfumed  fans  of  ladies.      Courtiers 
Who' re    busy    with    grave    cares    (that    make 

them  stoop) 
For  their  knee-buckles.      Cavaliers,  you  see." 

"You  see." — What  see  you  near  the  Delaware? 
The  "velvet"  of   good   blood   dyes  the  strong 

limbs, 

The  "shapely"  limbs  of  Old  Virginia's  sons, 
Its  signet  on  their  signal  march  to-night. 
The  powder  of  God's  storm,  the  ice-wind's  lace 
Trims    their  rent   clothes.       Their  naked   feet 

grasp  ground, 

And  wrest  it,  thus,  for  all  the  ages'  gaze — 
These  "cavaliers"  along  the  Delaware. 

This  "Cavalier"  along  the  Delaware — 

Who  is  that  man  who  walks  alone,  out  there, 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Beyond  the  distant  edge  of  bayonet-gleam  ? 
Quarried  from  out  the  black  he  looms  erect, 
The  black  of  care,  of  disappointment,  loss — 
A  silhouette  against  the  rocks  of  chance, 
The  crystal  strong  that  gathers  to  its  breast 
The  colored  leaps  of  fire  from  out  the  dark 
And  binds  them  for  a  torch  unto  a  people. 
Quarried  from  out  the  strain  of  all  the  life 
Lived  in  the  open  'neath  God's  lamps  alone, 
Inured  to  hardship,  bivouac,  to  risk, 
To  self-dependence  midst  the  fiery  wreath 
Of  savage  eyes.      Thus,  the  man's  made.     He 

stands, 

A  silhouette  against  an  old  world's  smile: 
"George  the  Surveyor !"  sneered  the  English  lip 
As  it  "surveyed"  its  George-phylacteries 
Of  kingly  bulk.     Has  it  "surveyed"  with  care? 
Methinks  that  ermine  sweepeth  leprously, 
Its  silken  rustle  cried  "Unclean,  Unclean  !" 
"George  the  Surveyor  !"    Let's  consult  a  Book  : 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

One  Adam's  taste  for  landscape  gardening 
Had  been  of  some  use  to  his  sons  since  Eden 
In  laying  out  the  parterres  for  a  people 
Along  (the  former)  mudslopes  of  a  world 
Whence  they  may  gather  nosegays.      I  recall 
That  e'en  the  Heavenly  Garden  set  on  heights 
Is  laid  out,  measured  oft,  by  One — a  man — 
You'd   call    him  "a   Surveyor."       He's  called 

Christ 

Up  there  where  value  finds  its  estimate. 
And  mark,  this  old  word  Value  means  Valeur, 
A  fighting  quality.       Red  to  the  rim 
Of    his    great    life    stood    Christ,    with    battle 

splashed, 

As  he  hewed  his  way  through.     He  now  "sur 
veys" 

The  wall-environment  around  His  park 
(Or  camp).     "It  is  the  measure  of  a  man!" 
He  cries.    Of  what  man  think  you  ?  of  Himself? 
Of  any  man  who's  wall  around  a  people. 
23 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

"George  the  Surveyor."      Yes,   the  term  will 
hold. 

The  Blue  Ridge  mountains  with  their  dip  and 

dare 
Stretched   their  cerulean  curve  and  climb  o'er 

thee  ; 

What  thoughts  and  projects,  Washington,  arose 
To  that  grand  forehead's  democratic  crown 
(The  only  crown  for  which  'tis  worth  to  sweat) 
The  Dare  to  free  a  people  didst  thou  dream? 
The   Pause    to  bend    and    wait   till    the  great 

hour? 

Be  resolute,  be  noble  thou,  O  soul ! 
Canst  thou  fortell  when  some  great  hour  shall 

call 

Its  summons  to  great  deeds  across  the  soil 
Where  vacant  now  thy  days  slip  by,  the  sun 
A  scorching  eyeball  in  the  heavens  to  blind. 
Strike  deeper  in  the  arid  wastes  thy  roots, 
24 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

O  soul !  whose   pulse   springs  Palm-like  to  the 

Blue, 
And  wait  —  till    the    great    God-thrill    through 

thee   run, 
Creative. 

Thou  art  destined  for  the  Dare. 
The  touch  that  wakens  thee  to  azure  air 
Sweeps  o'er  thy  branches  with  the  living  Breath 
That   fructifies  to  quench  the  thirst  of  men 
As  through  the  tawny  desert's  death-mist  dread, 
They  urge  their  flagging  way — lo  !   their  wild 

cry — 

The  undulant  blue  shadows  lace  the  Vague, 
The  enchanted  murmur  of  the  Morning  Calm 
Breaks,  like  the  illumined  chorus  after  death — 
They  see  thy  date-palm's  Crown  soar  o'er  her 

streams  ! 

Thy  thought  leaps  high  as  God's  great  sentinels, 

25 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Those  lips,  O  Washington,  would  match  great 

Mars', 

Thy  forehead  answers  to  thine  eye  to-night, 
It  flames  and  searches  the  perspective's  gloom, 
Thine  eyes,  O  Washington,  that  see  the  streak, 
The    silver  dawn-streak  light   that   grows  and 

domes 

Into  the  soaring  of  the  Blue,  the  arch 
Above  that  throne, — the  land  where  every  man 
Sits  crowned  because  he's  man.     Yea,  doughty 

men 

(The  dynasties  Columbia  counts  and  counts 
Upon  her  rosary  of  stellar  might) 
Out-rank  the  dynasties  of  fibril  kings. 

Alone  on  thee,  George  the  Surveyor,  hang 
The  hopes  of  a  whole  people  in  this  hour. 
And  yet  thou  standest  silent  and  aloof. 
The  brook  that  chatters  spends  itself  in  froth. 

From  out  the  awful  hush  where  Ocean  thinks, 
26 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Depth  upon  depth  in  folded  silence  dread, 
Ascend  the  giant  words  that  plunge  and  hurl 
Their  battle-cry  around  a  blanching  world. 

Still    the    reproach    grows:    "He's    so    silent! 

look  ! ' ' 

The  statue  stands,   a  silence.     Cold,   you  say? 
It's  thought.     The  fire-heats  in   artist-soul, 
And  white  heats  in  the  marble's  snowy  breast 
In  fusion  met.     Passion  divine  !  and  Thought 
Was  born — this  Thought  that   stabs    you    sud 
denly. 

.What  fires  wed  in  thy  great  soul  to-night, 
Thou  silent  man  ?     What  Thought  discloses  now 
In  thee,   Columbia's   Caesar,   its   august? 
Alone  on  thee,   O  Washington,  this  hour 
The  hopes  of  a  whole  people  hang.     On  thee 
Who'rt    left    to-night  with    just   two  thousand 

men, 

And  gallant  sheaf  of  generals  who  stand  firm. 
27 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

The  life  of  the  United  States  dies  low, 

A   flickering   flame.     No   flag  e'en   have   these 

troops 

To  bear  before  them  in  great  war.  And  strong, 
Sting  the  proud  words  from  out  the  Parliament 
Where  England  sits  in  storied  might  of  men, 
The  varied  lights  of  statesmanship,  like  panes 
Of  annal'd  glass  down  her  great  Minster's 

aisles. 
Their  hands    yet    hold  the  leash  that's  bit   in 

mouths 

Of  a  tempestuous  tribe  out  there,  "the  States, 
We'll  rein  in  soon  and  feed  with  tea-leaves." 

L,ion, 

Whose  ocean-roar  is  heard   around   a   world, 
Three   words  of   thine  thunder  through  Parlia 
ment  : 

"Can  Britain  fail?"  The  man  who  walks  alone 
Beyond  the  edge  of  bayonet-gleam  out  there, 

Beside  the  edge  of  icy  corpse  of  stream, 
28 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

With  no  proud  banner  shaking  out  its  light 
Of  promise  for  the  morrow,  bites  the  words 
Between  his  teeth.     I  would  beware  of  lips 
Ivike  those,   O  Britain,  for  they're  very  dread. 
And  then,  that  Eye,  that's  long  accustomed 
To   unimpeded  horizons,    sees — what? 
Columbia   fail?     She  who   may  belt  her    path 
With  dew-light  glory  and  with  scarlet  dusk? 
Columbia  fail?     She  who  from  east  to  west 
May  sweep  her  gaze  that  fronts  the  eternal  foam 
Of  seas  which  rock  in  thunderous  murmurings 
Around  a  world?     Ocean  will  bate  its  breath, 
And  lay  its  golden  flecks  of  foam,   its  coins, 
At  feet  of  Her  who  studs  one  golden  word 
Upon  her  brow  for  nations  :  3LtbCtt£. 
Columbia  fail? 

Yes,  but  the  night  dies  down, 
And  fold  on  fold  its  awful  wing  creeps  on. 

No  hope  to  lift  its  glory,  sheen  on  sheen, 
29 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Looms  as  the  land  to  homesick  eye's  return 
Across  the  sunset  wave,  and  strong  tears  roll 
Down  stalwart  faces  that  have  faced  the  bleak ; 
No  flag  to  flame  its  force,  its  beckoning, 
Looms  in  its  grandeur,  o'er  our  gaze  to-night. 
Art    Thou    not    there?     The   stellar  dust   that 

whirls 

In  pathless  space,   from  Thy  lit  chariot-wheels 
It   sprays,    each   drop  a   world   that  breaks    to 

height 

Of  being,  held  by  Thee  whose  Hand  is  rein 
O'er  the  blue  vault  of  the  sun-systems'    swirl 
Lo,    as  Thou   movest  on   the   Infinite, 
Watchman  of  Israel,  who  slumberest  not. 
Art  Thou  not  there  ?     Dost  Thou  not  send  Thy 

word 

Thy  plunging  meteor-word  to  say  to  earth 
" '  Tis    God    the    Timeless,    to    thy   knees   to 
night, 
Worship  the  Might  that  can  deliver  man." 

3° 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

The  cannon's  roar  shudders  across  the  night 
From  distant  darken' d  heights  of   Morristown. 
Its  eye   of  flame   rips   shadows.      Through  its 

glare 

Dead  eyeballs  stare  upon  a  vacant  sky, 
While  gurgling  down  the  Dark,  prophetic  voice 
Of  heroes'  blood  speaks  to  the  greater  Vast: 

Stand  forth,  O  God  Almighty,  in  this  night  ! 
Our  cause  is  just,  give  us  a  sign,  'tis  just  ! 
Look  how  the  nations  gather  'neath   the  beck 
Of  each  dread  finger  looming  as  their  hosts 
March  on  beneath  its  shadowed  garment's  power, 
"Our  lighthouse,"  shout  their  voices  in  the  van. 
Yet,  Orient's  crescent  waxes  to  no  moon. 
England's  proud  standard  shows  the  lion  fierce 
To  fall  upon  his  prey;  the  claws  distend. 
Beneath  her  standard  crawl  three  abject  men 
And   cling.     They  sign   their  names  while  na 
tions  laugh: 

31 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

The  Turk,  who  whets  his  promising  scimetar 
Upon  the  long,  bleached  bones  of  steadfast  men 
Who  held  thy  faith,  O  Britain,  the  same  faith 
That  says  "I'm  Christ's,"  as  lo  !  the  gold  cross 

looms 

Above  thy  crown's  height  where  a  ruby  rocks 
And  restless  tells  of  great  blood   spilt   in  vain. 
The  Turk,  who's  sponsor  for  his  scimetar; 
The  Egyptian  gentleman,  whose  haul  (in  sport) 
How  many  concubines  to  stock  his  harem? 
Whose  haul  (in  sport)  how  much  of  thy  gold- 
drops 
O    Britain,    wrung   from   sweat  of   thy   earth's 

sons? 

Yet,  'tis  the  Egyptian  gentleman.     Be  fair, 
Fair  with  fine  manners,  Britain,  and  protect. 
Take  care  of  the  Sick  Man,  the  Yellow' d  Shah — 
Upon  thy  insular  pivot,  Britain,  turn 
And   watch   the   dupes  to  whom  thy  guns  dic 
tate. 

32 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Stand  forth,  O  Judge  of  nations,  in  this  night, 
Our  cause  is  just,  give  us  a  sign,  'tis  just  ! 
The  sweep  of  Slavic  bird  moves  o'er  lone  snows 
That  shroud  the  cautious  on-come  of  the  Bear; 
The  ' '  Gott  mil  uns ' '  stares  with  white  eye 
balls  dread 

Upon  the  standard  whose  background  is   black 
With  belchings  of  hot  war,  a  spectre-gaze; 
The  throes  of  nations  streak  upon  their  flags 
The   earthquake-mutterings   under  which   they 

fall; 

Imperial  ermine's  spotted  with  black  flecks 
That  ooze  upon  the  bland  of  regal  gaze  ; 
The  scorpion  crawls  on  immemorial  walls 
Of  China  hoar,  standard  to  sting  her  hosts; 
Through  Vale  of  Roses  where   the   nightingale 
Pours  to  the  night  his  love-rill  lit  with  moon, 
That  moon  whose  tears  are  pearls  dropped  down 

the  Gulf 
As  slow  o'er  its  lit  billowing   she  moves 

33 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Seeking  her  love  the  Sun — her  soul,  herself 
Libation  to  his  light ;  across  this  Eden 
Passes  that  flag  whose  rude  primeval  roar 
Blanches  the  blush  of  rose — the  Lion  stalks, 
And  woman's  hopes  sink  with  each  sinking  sun. 

The   land  whose   soil   was   fed  from  Marathon, 
Whose  Thought  hath  opened  paths  to  deathless 

June, 
Pink   dawn   along   the  old,    gnarled,  branching 

years, 

The  makers  of  new  Meadows  mad  with  morn 
Where  men  yet  bend  and  drink  of  mazy  springs, 
In  epic  draughts  or  lyric  wine  or  cruse 
Filled  by  a  golden  hand,  the  Academe's, 
At  doors  of  immortality  ;  the  Land 
Whence  sway  of  Gods  still  dictates  to  a  world 
In  vocal  silences  where  Art  divine 
Rules  from  the  brow  of  Zeus  or  lips  of  Love— 
This  Land,  the  jewel  of  ^Egean  spray, 

34 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Who  wore  an  Orient  as  a  victor-star, 
Great   Hellas !   once  again   thou   standest  forth 
The  champion  of  the  Idea;  and  this,  the  Thought 
That  grooved  itself  in  Letters  of  thine  art 
First,  in  the  kingly  signature  of  Christ 
Titled  on  shuddering  conquest  of  His  Cross. 

Thou,    gazing   through   the   sightless  eyeballs, 

wreck 

Of  crumbled  empires,  Britain's  Orient  toy, 
The  shattered  golden  Crescent  that  erewhile 
As  moon  of  Mahomet  re-lit  the  brows 
Of  Egypt's  marble  gods,  pale  with  great  Past; 
Nightly  with  silver  mellowings,  bent  rapt 
Above  the  voice  of  immemorial  stream — 
Isis  divine  the  lotus-breast  Ideal ; 
And,  as  the  glittering  arc,  electric  span 
Binding  barbaric  Asia  to  the  West, 
Flashed  will  of  Sultan  down  its  scimetar 
(That  mirrored  deep  England's  acute  consent)  ; 

35 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Thou,    gazing    o'er   God's  whitening   moon-re 
vealed, 

The  Ottoman's  ghastly  distance  of  decay— 
Shalt  lift  thy  standard  of  the  God  of  gods, 
Veined  from  the  empyrean,  on  that  height 
Where  once   great    Pallas   war- wreathed   stood, 

her  eyes 
A  threat,  blue  lights  of  war  that  menaced  worlds. 

The  Kalpas',  ages  seven,  the  ages  vast 
That  climb  on  India's  standard,  what  say  they 
To  this  age  battering  at  her  effete  doors 
For  entrance? 

God,  Ancient  of  days,  the  Now, 
Veil  of  the  All,  the  Timeless  in  all  Time, 
Before  Whose  glance  the  ages  flit  like   globes 
Of  iridescent  foam  a-down  the  roar 
Of  cataracts  that  kneel  'neath  mountain's  Eye; 
Thou,  Alpha  and  Omega  of  Thy  worlds 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

The  stars  are  stairways  only,  vestibule 
Unto  Thy  Vast,  Ancient  of  mysteries. 
The  constellations'  epic  Chronicles 
Tell  but  the  rim  unto  Thy  radiance  ; 
They,  golden  portals  of  untravelled  shrine, 
The  belfry  trembling  with  the  Voice  whose  peal 
Upbuilds  the  dazzled  dome-reach  of  those  suns 
That    countless  crowd,    and   carve   one   Orient 

ai  >le 

Whirli.'g  its  incense-cloud  up,  up,  still  up — 
The  vaporous  silver  of  adoring  worlds 
At  foot  of  the  great  Altar's  golden — GOD. 

Stand  forth,  O  God  of  armies,  in  this  night  ! 
Thou  hast  a  standard   to  lead  on  to  light, 
That  standard  is  the  star-hosts'  .broidered  gleam. 
Across  each  night  it  streams  in  fiery  mist 
Held  in  the  hand  of  cohorts  infinite, 
Whose  grip  upon  the  staff  untightens  ne'er, 
Whose  thirst  in  this  dread  march  alone  is  slaked 

37 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

At  source  of  Thy  soul's  wine.     Thunder  their 

voice, 

Their  finger's  lightning  indicates  the  goal 
Towards  which  Thou  movest,  Mightiest,  the  goal 
Of  Armageddon  where  Thy  judgments  fall. 
Stand  forth,  O  God  of  cohorts,  in  this  night, 
Our  cause  is  just,  give  us  a  sign,  'tis  just  ! 
Is  there  not  sign  along  Thy  Heavens  to  help? 

Lo !   in    that  night's   renown   when    Pharaoh's 

hosts 

Encamped  beside  Red  waters,  vast  on  vast, 
Perspective  dread  of  war-bred  chariots, 
Warriors  whose  way  mowed  down  old  worlds, 

and  wrote 

New   hieroglyphs  of  blood  on  Chaldea's  dust, 
A  Cartouche  kingly  ;    lo  !    in  that  dread  day 
When  Pharaoh's  serried  spears  held  the  great 

glance 

Of  his  great  gazing  sun-god  Amen-Ra, 
38 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

A  sparkle  that  sent  shouts  above  the  Blue — 

The  obelisk  of  God,  His  pillar 'd  cloud, 

Yea,    God  Himself,   moved  through  the  awful 

hush 

That  fell,  as  slow  the  night  of  Egypt  welled ; 
Nay,  God  it  was  who  trod  down  suns, 
And  blotted  out  the  bloom  of  Nile's  great  shores, 
Pressing  upon  the  River  'till  it  fled 
An  ooze  of  darkness  dread,  an  Ethiop'  streak 
From  cataracts  to  sea.     Still  welled  that  Dark, 
Stealing  along  the  knots  of  dazzled  spears, 
Blackening   the   guard  and    rear-guard    of    the 

king- 
Pharaoh  !  thy  horses'  crests  are  darkening  ! 
Help  !  for  the  Pharaoh,  help  !  his  phalanx-veins 
Date  from  the  throes  of  gods,  e'er  Egypt  was, 
They're  red  with  the  veined   raiment   of   great 

Ra  ! 
They're  black  from   one   dread    touch,   O   king 

of  kings, 

39 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Pharaoh,  thy  horse's  crests  are  darkening, 
Like  those  gaunt  plumes  which   wave   on   fun 
eral  car, 
The  dead  goes  by  ! 

The  living  God  goes  by 

And  drowns  in  dusk  the  power  that  crumbled 
thrones. 

Stand  forth,   O  Watchman    dread,    in   this  our 

night ! 

Rip  from  Thy  heavens  star-veins  of  galaxies 
That  roll  in  restless  waiting  round  Thy  throne. 
To  pulse  forever  as  our  onward  lamp. 
For  pilot  as  for  ploughman,  sea  or  land, 
Lo !    is  Thy  hand  not  ready  to  indite 
A  message  new  writ  from  Thine  azure  Vast, 
A  message  new  leaping  in  scarlet  veins, 
Pinn'd    with    thine    own    star- promises  ?     the 

chords 

40 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

strings  upon  an  instrument  profound 
Whence  floats  a  music  whose  one  theme 
In  endless  harmony  of  blended  voice 
Sings  to  a  world  the  symphony 


A  silence  awful  holds  the  land.     A  pause. 
The  creak  stupendous  of  the  earth  was  felt 
As  slow  with  awful  words  of  prophecy, 
She  rocks  from  red  to  red,  from  sunset's  path 
To  dawn-aisles  where  the  Face  of  God  is  sun. 
Darkness  upon  our  forces.     Midnight  black, 
A  hand  of  Dark  whose  fangs  are  smeared  with 

death. 

Is  there  no  hope,  Eternal,  Who  once  mad'st 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Thee? 

Through   the  great   Dark   whose   clutch  steals 

close,  a  voice  — 
The  guns  of  England  streak  their  flame-wrath 

red 

41 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

In  bands  upon  the  sky.  Britain  !  thy  wrath 
The  Lord  Almighty  takes  for  His  own  plan 
And  belts  a  Standard  on  the  thunder-cloud 
Through  which  the  eyes  celestial  crowd  and 

crowd, 
Star-nebulae    of   worlds,    of  forming   worlds   to 

be— 
For,  out  this  stellar  mist  that  wreathes   the 

night, 

States,  peoples,  powers  arise  like  fountain-foam 
That  springs  perennial   from   the   earth's  dark 

breast, 

Renews  itself  in  sparkle,  globe  on  globe, 
An  atom  measuring  Immensity. 
The  Flag  for  nations  !    Lo,  Britain's  gun-streaks 

red 

Toss  their  renown  upon  God's  platform,  Night ; 
Promethean  breath  of  Britain  rolls  white  mist 
As  belts  upon  the  forming  banner,  Liberty  ! 
And  God's  own  hand  tears  constellations  up, 
42 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

And  pins  their  promises  upon  this  Blue. 
Nations  shall  look  to  It.     Their  fading  eyes 
Gather    new   gleams  of  hope.     The   hour  has 

rung. 

Star-veins  that  part  the  sea,  shout  Harborage  ! 
And  their  united  voices'  spheric  tones 
Still  leap  in  lyric  chant  as  once  they  sang 
In  their  great  orbits'  fire  :  flu  (BOfc  We  TTtUSt. 


The  man  to  lead  in  vanguard  of  great  men 
Stands  up.     His  gaze  is  awful  down  this  night's 
Great  eagle-wing  of  overshadowing. 
Stand  still,  ye  nations,  for  the  hour  has  rung. 
There  is  a  Standard.    God's  Might  and  one  Man 
Who  hurls  his  heroes  o'er  the  Delaware. 

June  14.,  1777. 

The  shadow  vast    of    death   that   clutched   the 
shores 

43 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Of  the  long  river's  answering  pallid  face 

Has    passed    away.     Down     in     the    trenches' 

depths 

One  stood,  and  grappled  with  a  Form 
Dismounted,  hideous,  whose  laugh  played  loose 
Among  the  dead,  whose  breath  blew  orchestra 
Across  the  fleshless  hands  that  streaked  the  air. 
They  closed  in  vital  grapple,  the  great  Two — 
Thou  Washington,  with  those  fore-ordained  lips, 
And  thou  gaunt  Shadow,  moving  awfully. 
The  great  result  stands  pillar 'd  on  all  Time. 
The  man  who  dares  face  shadows,  merits  sun. 
You'll  see  him  in  a  moment  where  he  stands 
And    does   a   deed   that's   fraught   with   conse 
quence 
In  this  fair  city,  Philadelphia  call'd. 

Two  rivers,  yea  of  life,  encircle  her. 
The  belt  of  land    that's   stretched   from   gleam 
to  gleam, 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Forms,  in  its  streets,  the  chords  upon  a  lute 
Whence  martial  music  floated,  in  the  ring 
Of   great  men's  steps  this  good  year  'Seventy- 
Seven. 

The  quaint  old  city's  birth  dates  from  afar. 
The  feet  of  Hudson,  Stuyvesant,  De  Vries 
Smoothed  out  the  savage  furrows,  partially. 
And  then  thou  cam'st,  serene  and  sun-lit  face, 
With  thy  great  project  for  this  belt  of  land 
To  found  a  commonwealth,  self-governing, 
Whose  roots  draw  sap  from  the  great  principles 
Of  fundamental  faith  ;  whose  branches  wave 
Free  as  God's  air  to  spread  where'er  they  list. 
Still  hold  the  quaint  old  city's  forest  streets 
Her  forest  names,  in  echoes  sylvan,  sweet, 
Of  the  far  Time  where  God  invited  first 
His  birds  to  sing  upon  the  sunlit  air 
The  outward  music  of  the  tree's  great  heart. 

The  quaint  old  city's  name  dates  from  afar, 

45 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Penn  named  it  Philadelphia.     Its  great  root 
Once  grappled  deep  on  shores  of  the  Levant 
To    whom    God's    message    to     His    churches 

came, — 
The  Seven  (you'll   find   them   writ  within   the 

Book), 

Among  them,   Philadelphia,  the   name  means 
The    love    of   brotherhood.      Well-named,    great 

man, 

Whose  policy  towards  the  savage — Peace ! 
Two  words  stand  out  on  thine  escutcheon  proud: 
Mercy  and  Justice,  the  initial  steps 
By    which    thou    mounted'st    to    the    Indian's 

heart. 

The  highest  throne  in  all  God's  measurements: 
Steadfast  dominion  o'er  the  hearts  of  men. 

The  quaint  old  Quaker  city  on  the  streams 
Inherits  still  mild  faces  (that  yet  know 

Good  cheer.     Their  taste's  a  relic,    Anglican). 
46 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Its  sleepy,  dreamy,  say  you?     Not  the  speed 
Of    great    New    York,    or    brain -spin    of    the 

"Hub." 

Most  surely,  Philadelphia's  not  New  York 
Where,   with   a   headlong   rush,    we   hurl    our 
selves 
Against — His   smile   that  says,   ' '  Go  back,  my 

child, 

Begin   again  more  quietly.     It  took 
How  many  aeons  to  enrich  the  mud 
Whereon  the  city  of  Manhattan  rests?" 
Nor  Boston,  that  spins  round  upon  her  hub, 
And    sometimes    stands    stock    still    and    loses 

time 
Through    gaze   at   her   domed   forehead  in  the 

Bay. 
There  have  been   peacocks  who   lost  wondrous 

chance 

Of  succulent  sweet  crumbs  spread  for  their  fare 
By  spreading  to  the  fair  their  Vanity, 

47 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

And  standing  vaster  than  King  Solomon 
Before  a  travell'd  lady,  Sheba  call'd — 
While  homely  little  squirrels  gobbled  All. 

Most  surely  Philadelphia's  not  New  York  : 
But  Gothic  is  not  Greek,  nor  Byzantine, 
Nor  yet  the  old  Gigantic  whence  they  drew 
Their  nutriment, — the  temples  on  the  Nile. 
Enjoy  the  Egyptian,  Karnak's  awful  might, 
The  work   of  men  who  worshipped.     And    the 

Greek 
The  work   of    men  who   thought.     And  down 

to-day 

The  Gothic,  work  of  men  who  dreamed.      Be 
ware 

Of  climbing  up  into  God's  Judgment-seat. 
You  could  not,  surely,  see  as  far  as  He, 
E'en  if  you  climbed. 

Along  the  stream  of  Time 

48 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Leapt   God's  great    word   of   message    to    that 

town 

Of  Philadelphia,   yea,  from  Him  who  held 
The  seven   stars — His  churches,  in   His  hand. 
He  that  hath  ears  let  him  hear  what  God  says 
In  His  great  message  now,  in  this  good  year 
Of  'Seventy-seven.     A  word  writ  with  a  pen 
Dipp'd  in  His   sunrise- veins,  His  moon's  path 

hoar, 
His  cauldron  of  the  stars  where  worlds  swim  up. 

You  see  that  sunny  cloud  along  the  Blue? 
Follow  its  pointing  finger  as  it  floats 
Still  on.     It  stays  to-day  and  wreaths  itself 
Above  a   Tower,   from  whose   quaint   galleries' 

height 

The  vistas  wind  through  many  murky  ways 
Of  this  complex  existence — MAN,  and  find 
The  one  strong  civic  citadel  within, 
Surrendering  never  to  the  shocks  of  chance, 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Building  above,  howe'er  down-crushed,  subdued, 
Finding  its  way  still  up  through  clods  or  kings, 
The  one  supreme  in  all  my  manhood's  urge  — 
The  Love  of  Freedom  —  f  n&Cpenfcence  call'd. 


In  Independence  Hall   one  year  agone, 
One  year  before  this  good  date  'Seventy  -seven, 
A  future  hung  upon  a  breathless  pause, 
As,  slow,  a  massive  parchment  was  unrolled, 
And  great  men's  eyes  glittered  across  its  blank. 

x 

Shall   we   throw   down,    with    iron    hand,    the 

glove, 

The  gauntlet  of  our  signature?     Around 
Belts    Britain    her    stupendous  —  men    who're 

carved 
In    tactics   of    bright    steel,    flanked    with    the 

shell 

That  tore  its  way  to  conquest  in  two  spheres. 
They  tilted,  yea,  at  Time,  those  warriors, 
Time  the  great  shadow  of  the  Infinite 
50 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

That  e'er  unrolls  its  boundless  azure  line, 
The  sky-line  of  the  Ever-New,  the  View 
Expanding  in  soul-ardor's  light  to  heights. 
Time  whose  recording  hand  is  held  in  God's, 
Held    the   great    pen    above    the    parchment's 

blank. 

Think  you  the  dim  papyrus-groves  on  Nile 
Whispered  in  ages  gone  momentous  words 
The  generations  were  to  carve  for  e'er 
Upon  their  page,   from  Mena  to  the  Man 
The  Word,  through  Whom  the  furrowed  ages' 

thought 
Voiced  its  supreme,  the  Atfyo?,  Christ  ? 

The  New 

That's  still  the  Old,  recorded  its  great  birth, 
In  eastward  room  of  Independence  Hall. 
Name  after  name  sowed  its  immortal,  wrote 
Its   shining    track    upon   that    bleak — the  Un 
known. 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

But  they  knew.      They   felt    (in   signing   that 

great  Roll 

The  Magna  Charta  of  our  liberties), 
Those  prophets  stern,  the  very  pulse  of  God 
Who  holds  the  hand  of  Time  upon  that  lock 
That  opens  a  new  doorway  up  the  day. 

To-day,  to-day  this  good  year  'Seventy-seven, 
A  doorway  open  stands  in  Independence  Hall. 
Wait  at  the  threshhold  with  bowed,  reverent 

head, 

I  counsel  it,   before  this  Council  in  the  room. 
Your  eye  sweeps  round  the  circle  brave  of  men 
Who've  stood  the  strain  of  being  quite  sincere — 
America's  young  Congress.     Nay,  they're  old 
These  men  in  knowledge  of  tradition,  law 
The  Lord   laid   down ;    His   first-born  :    Light, 

that's  free. 

They  gravely  wait  upon  a  central  word. 
The  table's  strewn  with  quite  a  curious  mesh 
52 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Of  colored  light.     Is  it  prismatic  gleam 

From   storied    windows    shredding  their    great 

rays? 

Nay,  but  the  panes  are  plain  white  glass 
Like  windows  in  the  poor  man's  simple  hut, 
White  as  the   mountain-breath   of  smoke    that 

curls 

From  cabin  of  the  pioneer  afar. 
No  accessory  frames  these  faces  strong, 
These  carvers  of  our  Life.     From  out  their  lives 
Will  sweep  the  mighty  aisles  where  men  may 

kneel 
And  worship  God  who  steadied  them  in  storm. 

Yes,  but  this  mesh  of  colors?  rainbow-gleam 
From  somewhere,  somehow,  saying    ' '  Night  is 

past, 

Shout  your  great  shout,  the  Lord's  a  man  of  war 
And  has  led  on  ?  Your  Miriam-timbrel  clash  ? 
In  one  great  moment,  pivotal,  you'll  hear 

53 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

"They  fought  from  heaven,  the  very  star- veins 

fought." 
Wait  the  result. 

The  tints  that  tinge  this  board 
Are  the  old  flags  of  the  old  colonies : 
Connecticut's,  her  motto  stamped  in  gilt ; 
Putnam's, — well-done  thou  grand  old  Puritan, 
With  thy  "Appeal  to  Heaven"  in  brave  relief! 
Thy    "Trust  in  God!    (but  keep  your  powder 

dry)"; 

Moultrie's  blue  flag,  a  crescent  in   the  bend  ; 
Virginia's  Yellow,  with  its  menace-coil, 
Its  serpent  legend  "Do  not  tread  on  me!" 
And  Massachusetts'  with  its  Evergreen, 
Its  Pine  unfading  on  whose  bark  is  cut 
For  Unbelief  to  scan,  just  "Old  Put's"  words. 
(The     present    proves    that    they    have     quite 

a  vail' d). 
Dare  to  rely  on  Heaven  when  all  is  dark, 

54 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Her  stars  will  laurel  thee  with  aureate  light. 
The  Light,  the  first-born  I/ight,  streams  through 

the  panes, 

And  focuses  its  flash  upon  a  Web 
Of  iridescent  sheen — a  dew-light  belt, 
A  scarlet  dusk,  paths  that  stretch  east,  stretch 

west — 

Repeated  o'er  and  o'er.     And  silver  flecks 
Of  foam  are  they?   from  out  the  Ocean- war 
Of  elements?     Nay,  look!  look  closer  yet, 
And  see  the  stars  roll  their  perennial  fires 
Upon  this  standard. 

Once  again  there's  hush 

In  the  old  Hall.     The  eyes  of  Congress  turn 
Towards  a  Man  who  sits  in  their  great  midst ; 
For  on  his  word  a  beetling  moment  waits. 

As  when,  along  the  crags  and  storied  cliffs 
That  hold  the  history  of  the  Ocean's  face 

55 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

In  seam  and  scar — the  fastnesses  of  Thought, 
One  spur  lifts  up  beyond  the  cliff-path's  streak, 
And  holds  the  sudden  smite  of  the  great  sun, 
And  echoes  back  the  shout  of  salt- wind's  voice — 
Spray 'd  with  Immensity,  kin  to  God's  sky, 
The  eagle  mount  amongst  the  crested  crags; 
Arises  in  the  midst  of  granite  men 
One  Man. 

In  vanguard  of  great  men  he  towers, 
A  silhouette  against  an  old  world's  quake. 
You  see  him  :  Washington.     Three  syllables 
That  wrote  a  new  word  in  the  book  of  life, 
It  spells  the  All  that  makes  life  any  worth — 
Home,  Country,  Liberty. 

With  onward  look 

That  eyes  of  genius  own,  his  gaze  commands 
A  future.     For  to-day,  in  this  good  place, 
A  standard  must  be  chosen  for  a  people. 
Slowly,  as  when  before  the  prophet's  eye 
Trained  in  aloueness,  silence,  to  arrive 
56 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

At  God's  great  ventures,  yea,  in  Bethlehem 
The  little  town  that  bourgeons  like  the  soul 
Apex  of  all  creation's  symmetry— 
The  sons  of  Jesse  passed,  and  the  Voice  said 
"This  is  not  My  anointed;"  the  great  hand 
Of  Washington  puts  by  the  flags  and  flags 
Which  Congress  lifts  to  meet  his  onward  gaze. 
The  iron  hand  of  the  great  warrior 
Grasps  one  great  fold.     It  is  the  Word 
Writ  to  the  City  Philadelphia  by  the  Pen 
Dipped   in    the   sunrise-veins,    the   moon's  path 

hoar, 
God's  cauldron  of  the  stars  where  worlds  swim 

up— 
The  message  to  the  land  that  He  elects. 

The  iron  hand  of  the  great  warrior, 
The  lordlier  hand  of  the  great  man 
Tarries.      On  him  who  marched  breast-high   in 
blood 

57 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

And   hew'd   our   way    right    through,    decision 

hangs. 

I  hear  the  heart-throb  of  a  wheeling  world, 
I  hear  the  greater  heart-throb  of  great  men. 


Above,  in  the  gray    Tower  a  gray -haired  man, 
A  patriot  sits.     His  hand  is  on  the  cords 
That  hold  the  Bell,  the  great  Bell— Xfbett£. 
It  thundered  out,  one  year  agone,  the  Word 
That  spoke  around  two  waiting  hemispheres, 
As    name    by    name    went    down,    in     tossing 

shouts, 

Upon  the  Page  that  severed  us  for  aye 
Unto  ourselves. 

The  old  man's  face  recalls 
That  day  :  millennial  moment  on  Time's  clock. 

A  spot  of  fire  like  spurt  from  a  star-wheel 
Burns  on  his  cheek  just  now,  this  patriot   old. 

58 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Closer  he  grasps  the  cords.     And,  solemn,  waits 
L,ike  dawn's  gray  face   that   feels   the   advance 
of  fire. 

A    voice    leaps   bound   on   bound   the   Tower's 

stairs : 
"Ring,    Ring,    they've    chosen.      Washington 

has  said. 
Ring,    Ring,    we    have    a   Standard    from    the 

stars—' ' 
The    old    bell    rocks    and    sways    against    the 

walls, 

The  pulse  of  patriots  pours  its  leaping  fire 
In  clash  of  iron  voices  :  Ring,  O  Bell, 
Ring,  Ring,  Ring  out  the  vast  horizon's  light — 
Thou   rock'st   men's    chains   on    lone    Siberia's 

snows 

With  utterance  prophetic.     Through  the  rose 
That  blooms  upon  the  breast  of  woman,  bound, 
A  hope  thrills  up,  of  sacred  home  and  child. 

59 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Across  the  heats  of  Asia,  crawls  the  snake, 
The  scorpion,  within  its  walls.     Thou  Bell 
Dooui'st  it  to  die,  thou  ring'st  an  era  new. 
Dash  great  desire  and  dare  in  hearts  of  men, 
Bind  in  one  common  weal,  one  commonwealth, 
The  rich  who  reaps,  the   poor  who   sows   the 

seed. 

Enfranchise  man  where'er  he  groans  and  waits. 
Ring,  drop  on  drop,  the  rounded  verity  : 
One  blood  unites  the  ploughman  and  the  prince 
Yea,    as   one   scarlet   fire   threads   through   the 

spheres. 
Ring,  Ring   O  Bell,   the   Flag's   full    fluttering 

voice — 
(From  night  'twas  born,  the  night  was  needful, 

see, 

For  mellowing  of  a  star-purpose  vast), 
Ring  out  O  Bell,  its  tidings  down  the  tides 
That    mount    in    sapphire    glory   foamed   with 

stars  : — 

60 


THE  SCARLET-VEINED. 

Fear  ye  no  night,  O  ye  United  States, 
Each  dusk  is  witness  on  great  Heaven's  dome 
Ye' 11  stand.     The  stars  nail  it  along  the  night. 
Fear  ye  no  night,  O  ye  United  States, 
The  night  of  party  jealousies,  of  strife, 
Where  factions  war,  and  thunders  roll  their  car, 
Where  the   live   tongues   leap   from   the   light 
ning's  mail, 

And  the  vast  Void  is  vocal  round  your  sail — 
Your    prow,    your   Scarlet- Veined    ploughs   up 

the  stars, 

Those   harbor-lights   of   God's    great   Common 
wealth, 

The    bubbling   lights   for   nations    round    your 
Barque. 


'.i 


Dis  flDa  jests 

GEORGE   THE    FIRST 
KING   OF   HELLAS 

The  Inheritor  of  her  giant  Past 
The  Herald  of  her  garlanded  To-morrow. 


The  Morning  Star  above  the  scythed  moon 

Crowns   the  great   dawning's   brink, 
Hellas  !   thy  stellar   Past   upon   thy   brow, 
Re-throned   through  throes  of  night  upon   the 

Now, 
Dost   watch   the   Crescent   sink  ! 


VOICES. 


VOICES. 


jfrom  ffiellas— for  Hellas. 

ONCE  more  thine  ancient  fires  burn,  Hel 
lenic   might, 

On   Athos'    height, 

And   face,  with   lurid    forehead  o'er    the   blue 
expanse, 

The   Orient's  lance. 

On   Cretan   Ida's   fountained  peak   the  watch 
man   waits. 

^Bgean's  gates, 

The  portals  of  thy  crimson-hearted  heroes,  ope 
In   sunrise-hope. 

Forward  !     With   memories  red  of   Marathon's 
great  gaze 

Through  Asian   maze, 

Face   Britain's  vaunted   brawn,  great   Europe's 
treachery, 

Thews  of  Thermopylae  ! 

67 


VOICES. 


IDofces  tfrom  Stellas. 

THEIR  shout  went  up  to  the  Sun 
Ages  gone, 

To  the  white  brows,  recording,  of  gods, 
When  Herodotus  read  of  The  Fight 
That  fashioned  those  Hellenes  a  might 
In  the  teeth  of  a  fulgurous  dawn, 

The  Orient  buttressed  on  brawn 

Ages  gone, 

Pale  like  the  peopled  haze  of  hell, 
A  whirlwind,  edged,  o'er  the  shuddering  main 
It  swept,  it  clashed.     It  shall  meet  again 
Little  Hellas  buttressed  on  brain. 

Her  shout  goes  up  to  the  sun 
In  this  dawn, 

68 


VOICES. 

To  the  heart  of  the  great  God  of  gods. 
Alone  midst  Europe's  craven  gun-light, 
Alone  to  lift  the  Christ-flag  aright, 
Veined  with  the  ancient  ichor  of  might- 
Little  Hellas  buttressed  on  right ! 


VOICES. 


ffrom  fl&ount  ©Ipmpus. 

• 

ONCE  more  ye  whirl  your  glance  a-down 
that   height, 

The  fount  of  the  idea — of  gods  for  man. 
See  !    through  the  valley's  serpentining  light, 
Dread  mirror  of  the  horned  moon,  the  wan 
Thin  daylight  looks.      Fuller  and  faster  still 
The   Orient  pours.      Her   hordes'   vermilion 

Hope, 

Fire-sheeted  from  great  Tophet's  fanned  anvil, 
Roars  a  red  rain.      The  devil's  gate  is  ope. 
Nay,  whirl  our  shout  round  the  great  stars,  we 

men, 

The  beaked  hearts  of  great  Hellas  hold  the  hour. 
No  more  as  once  the  war  midst  gods  again 
Contending,  calls.      The  one  who  blends  their 

power 

70 


VOICES. 

Into  one  cause  of  man  for  man  stands  out — 
Christ  with  the  human  eyes  has  led  the  shout ! 


VOICES. 


3anua  Dttae. 


STAND,  O  ye  Hellenes,  stand  ! 
"Three  Hundred"  against  All; 
Stand  in  the  rocky  clefts  of  your  will, 
The  thin  red  line  of  great  Hellas  still, 
Stand  ! 

Stand,  O  ye  Hellenes,  stand  ! 

Your  thirty  centuries 

Are  glowing  before  ye,  and  ray  ye  all  o'er 
If  ye'  11  smite  as  never  and  never  before  — 
Stand  ! 

Stand,  O  ye  Hellenes,  stand  ! 

Of  fiery  transport  born, 

Grapple  onward  with  knee,  with  fist,  with  teeth, 
Wrench  out  from  disaster  immortal  wreath  — 
Stand  ! 


VOICES. 


Coeur  2>e  Xion  1189. 
Ube  Xfon^fliearteO  1897. 

OH,   for  one  steel-strong   Presence  at  thy 
prow, 

England,  finessing  while  Christ's  flag  goes  down  ! 
Where  is  thy  vaunted  cceur  de  Lion  now 
To  answer  with  its  roar  the  Orient's  frown? 
Plantagenets  thou  countest,  royal  roll 
Buzzing  o'er  Turkish  sweetmeats  wrapt  in  pelf  ; 
PLANTAGENET  is  not :    Great  scarlet  soul, 
Who  for  thy  Thorn-Crowned  flung  away  himself. 
To-day   thy  cceur  de  Lion  crouches,  pale 
From  prowl  of  Bear  and  scream  of  Teuton  bird  ; 
Arise,  dead  Cid  !  *   our  manhood's  hoarse  "All 
hail  !" 

*  The  reader  will  recall  how  the  prayers  of  the  faithful  and 
the  tooth  of  St.  Apollonia  having  failed,  they  set  the  dead  Cid 
from  his  tomb  in  Burgos  at  the  head  of  the  host,  and  routed  the 
red  Orient. 

73 


VOICES. 

Awaits  thine  awful  face,  thy  silent  word. 
Arise,  thou  gaunt  but  gauntleted  red   Might, 
And  hurl  thine  England"  on  the  Orient's  fight ! 


74 


VOICES. 


Slavic 


ABOVE  those  ancient  hill-tops,  where  the 
dove 

Panted  its  message  bright  of  irised  rain, 
A  vulture-cloud  wheels   darkening,    above 
The   solemn   Vast  —  the   unmeasured  mounds 

of   slain. 

Armenia  !   arching  o'er   thy   crimsoned   lands 
Two  dread  wings  stretch  ;  steady  they  wait, 

their   sweep 
That  Standard's  double  eye  whose  move  com 

mands 

From  Stamboul's  silent  chess-play  to  the  leap 
Of  the   Pacific  sea.     Is   it   to  help, 

Thou  Russian  might?  to  succor,  save?  and  led 
By   thee  the   nations  learn?     for  thy  dread 
self 

75 


VOICES. 

Thy  Standard's  dark  advancement  o'er  the 
dead? 

Is  this  thy  power  ?  lo !  thy  huge  wings  un 
roll. 

A   nation's  bulk  consists  in  her  great  soul! 


VOICES. 


3for  Crete  an&  Hrmenia. 

FORWARD,    ye    nations,    in    the    name   of 
Heaven  ! 
The  Cross   that   wrapped  your  hosts  in  fiery 

swathe, 
Saint   George's  gleam,   thou   England    to   thee 

given 

Down  thine  illumined  Past,  to-day  'twill  bathe 
Thy  unsheathed  steel.     Leap  from   your  bond- 
aged  sheath, 

Ye  swords  of  Albion,  to  avenge  the  hands 
Stretched  in  a  white  appeal  to  ye,  where  death 
Streaks  the  gaunt  air  in  Islam's  defamed  lands. 
We  men,  whose  flag  claims  Heaven's  great  star- 
ship  dread 

For  pilot,  in  our  veins  rocks  the  red  blood 
Of  brotherhood  with  Britain's  life,  faith-fed. 

77 


VOICES. 

Is  it  not  forward  in  the  name  of  God? 
ONE  took  the  greater  risk  upon  a  Cross 
And  saved  a  world  in  Calvary's  red  loss  ! 


VOICES. 


Dofces. 

WHAT  voices  swing  with  the  wild  bird's 
wing 

Fluttering  on  Stamboul's  shore, 
Sweeping  along  the  red  twilight's  trail, 

Calling,  and  o'er  and  o'er 
Flinging  on  Mosque  and  Seraglio's  domes 
Their  utmost  plaint  at  the  door? 

On  the  Dardanelles'  breast  in  infamous  rest 

The  guns  of  England  lie, 
A  holiday  Red  at  the  halliard's  head, 

The  Cross  of  Christ  on  high  ! 
Idly  a  breath  curls  the  crimsoning  wave: 

The  ennui  of  Britain's  sigh. 

Like  a  giant  wound,  without  cry  or  sound, 

79 


VOICES. 

The  red  sun  falls  and  falls, 
An  awful  drop  on  the  dead,  dumb  day, 

A  requiem  that  calls 
To  every  drop  of  red  manhood's  blood 

In  that  fleet  at  the  Sultan's  walls. 

It  utters  to-day  and  to-morrow's  to-day 

The  Orient's  crimson  shame  ; 
The  Orient's  shame,  did  I  rashly  cry? 

'Tis  Christians'  scarlet  shame 
That  hears  the  wild  surge  of  its  brethren's  blood — 

And  plays  the  diplomatists'  game  ! 

And  idly  floats  like  the  painted  boats 

That  children  set  adrift, 
While  the  blood  sobs  on  with  each  falling  sun; — 

No  hand  leaps  forth  to  lift 
From  the  soddened  woe.     But,  ye  nations,  hark! 
For  this  red  sun  moves  up  the  Orient- dark 

And  speaks  to  Him  who  will  sift ! 

so 


VOICES. 


©n  SHfstors's  Mall. 


SO   fallen,   so  lost, 
England   to-day  ! 

Thy   guns  plough  the   moonlight 
At   Crete   with   their  noonlight  : 
Lit   infamy's  ray. 

So   fallen,    so   lost, 

England   in   might  ! 
Thy   faith?  in   the  Prophet 
Whose   sons  dip  in   Tophet 

Their  hands   of  red  light. 

So  fallen,    so  vain, 

England,    thy   vaunt  ! 
Thy   Christ  shudders,    dying, 

81 


VOICES. 

Thy  colors  a-flying 

At   Crete   toss   their   taunt. 

So  fallen,    so   shrunk, 

Britain    ' '  sans  bornes  ' '  / 
In   Turkish   bonds  grappled, 
Thy  conscience?   a  dappled, 
Dead-gold,    a   God's  scorn. 

For  the  hand,  trembling,  stretched 

(Thou,   Britain,   know  well) 
On  Crete's   Calvary,    writes 
From   its  crimson's  dread   heights 
Thy  MENE  TEKEL. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


Ube  fflag  in  tbe  Dardanelles, 

OF  all   the   wonders  that   the    Old    World 
shows, 

Of  storied  heights,  Imperial  gloom  or  gleam, 
One  sight  stupendous,  growth  of  a  grand  dream, 
Lifts  in  the  crimson  haze  of  Orient-beam, 

The  Flag  of  Washington  leads  empires  on. 

Fortressed  upon  his  crimes  the  Sultan  sits, 
A  smile  triumphant  bridges  the  blue  straits, 
Where,   impotent,   the  might  of  nations  waits. 
The  smile  Sultanic  its  red  scheeming  sates? 
Not  while  the  Scarlet- Veined  leads  empires 
on. 

Unfurled  to  thunderous  haze  of  Moslem  might, 
O  Flag  of  Washington,  in  this  great  hour, 

85 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

A  challenge,  thou,  in  teeth  of  storied    power; 

No  lust  of  empire  tempts  thee,  golden  dower — 

The  cause  of  Man  is  thine,  O  Flag,  sail  on  ! 

On  !  where  the  ' '  Powers ' '  are  powerless  to  pass, 
In  van  of  empires  thou  the  guiding  rod, 
On  !   for  the  cause  of  Man  is  cause  of  God  ! 
God  swept  His  stars  one  morn  thy  face  upon — 
The  cause  of  God  is  thine,  O  Flag,  sail  on  ! 


PA  TRIO  TIC  POEMS. 


Nature's  Dote. 

GOD'S  great  big  golden  Dollar  rises  daily 
on  the  dawning, 
And   scatters  golden   plenty  to  Uncle  Sam's 

vast  fold, 

Tell  me  why  this  fuss  on  voting?     God's  poli 
tics  are  chosen  ! 

The   darkness  claims    the    silver,   the    moon 
that's  fed  from  gold. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

In  /iDemoriam  flDaceo. 

"He  being  dead,  yet  speaketh." 

AT  Punta  Brava  hast  thou  fallen  to-day, 
Leading  thy  Star  through  the  red  car 
nage-haze  ? 
Upon  Spain's  lip  a  Judas-smile  finds  way, 

Broadening  to  laughter  and  to  triumph-lays? 
From  Punta  Brava  shall  thy  star  ascend, 

O  Cuban  patriot,  thy  standard's  star 
That  with  great  Freedom's  galaxy  must  blend 

And  burn  before  the  dark  of  nations  far. 
Shall  the  Castilian  smile  from  camp  to  king? 
Not    while    on    Brava    soil    there    lives     a 

soul, 

Not  while  the  alchemy  of  Freedom's  ring, 
Married  to   man,   gleams  toward  one  golden 
goal. 

88 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

Thy  meteor- purpose,   Maceo,  shall  burn 
Upon  thy  comrades'   souls,  the  battle  turn  ! 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

TCo  Grower  Cleveland 

Chief  Executive. 

OTHOU  who  waitest  at  the  helm  this  hour, 
Thou  whom  Columbia  honored  with  her 

trust, 
To  voice  her  will,  to  represent  her  power, 

Why  on  thy  pen  Executive  this  rust 
When  the  great  cry  of  man  for  Liberty 

Obliges  thy  great  torch  to  light  his  land? 
O  shaker  of  the  Lion  and  the  sea, 

Thou  who  didst  fetter  Anarchy's  red  hand, 
Thou     from    the     Putnam     battle-blood     that 

knew 

Nor  danger,  nor  dishonor,  nor  delay 
When  the  fair  Right  lifteth  her  face  to  sue 
For    manhood's    instant    arm,    cost   what   it 

may — 

90 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

Carve  out,  with  Pen,  a  path  for  Cuba  free, 
Oh,  seize  to-day  thine  opportunity  ! 


PA  TRIO  TIC  POEMS. 


's  pet  JBirfc. 


IN   the  Zoo  of  the  nations  a  marvellous  sight 
On  the  sands  of  Time  appears, 
Madam   Europe   stands   up  with   her  lorgnette 

deep, 
At  the  crested  vision  leers. 

A  trainer  of  animals  great  and  small 

Struts  forth   in   the  garish  light, 
His  crow   rhyming  on   with    the   death-clock's 
tick— 

And  fair  Europe's  cheek  turns  white. 

He  faces  the  bear  with  the  grizzled  hair, 

Four  hundred   years  older  than  he, 
Quite  ancient  enough  this  bird  to  instruct  — 

The  Turkey  instructs  Brother  B.  ! 

92 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

He  eyes  the  two-headed  Kaiser-bird, 

With  his  one  old-sinner  head ; 
The  Eagles  of  Rome  that  o'er  Asia  screamed, 

Coquet,  then  shiver — they've  fled! 

But  marvel  of  marvels,  the  biped  that  once 
Caressed  him  (caged  in  the  South), 

!     To-day  he  has  got  a  hitching-strap 
In  the  English  donkey's  mouth. 


93 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


TTbe 


I    HAD  a  large  prize  for  the  Zoo, 
For  the  denizens  of  the  den, 
I  slowly  strolled  through  the  garden's  fold, 
And,  quite  anxiously,  scanned  each  pen  : 

There  was  the  British  lion 

With  a  bluster  in  every  blare  ! 
Yet  he  feared  to  fight  for   the  Hellenes'  right, 

Can't  he  bear  The  Prize  to  his  lair? 

Our  Eagle  was  posing  well 

For  a  new  dollar-greenback  die, 
Yet  no  quill  from  his  wing  has  writ  the  Grand 
Thing 

To  sustain   Cuba  Libre  as  I. 

The  monkey  was  mincing  the  airs 

94 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

Of  a  Dreibund  member,  quite  pale, 
Sniffling  well  to  the  organ  was  plaintive  Jack 

Morgan, 
Quite  Red,  White  and  Green  to  his  tail. 

I  heard  two  big  buzzards  talking: 

' '  Milk  pardons  /  "  #  *  "  Entschuldigen  Sie  !  ' ' 
On  the  walls  that  were  Alsace,  a  good  deal  of 
tall  "sass," 

An  Eagle  (or  eager)  war-glee. 

Just   look  at  that  grandiose  Bird  ! 

He  sweeps  from  the  lands  of  the  Pole, 
But  his  glance  it  is  double,  'twill  give  nations 
trouble 

From  Scotia  to  Corea's  role, 

The  sick  Turkish  paroquet 

On  the  Sultan-odalisque's  arm 
Is  really  quite  well :  the  "Powers"  are  pell-mell ! 

95 


PA  TRIO  TIC  POEMS. 
That  red  on  his  wing  is  Blood,  warm  ! 

They  all  really  deserve  my  prize  ; 

To  whom  shall  I  give  it,  you  think? 
But  I've  made  up  my  mind,  and  I'm  quite  far 
from  blind, 

You  can  guess.      One  guess  in  a  wink ! 

There  he  comes,  the  Prize- Winner,  sure  ! 

A  wailer,  spelt  W-e-y-1-e-r,  you  say? 
My  Booby  Prize- Winner  without  triumph's  din 
ner  : 

The  real  SPANISH  DONKEY  to-day. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


Expectations. 

WHOM    do  you   pray   for,   darling,    to 
night?" 

Mamma  said  to  the  curly  toss 
Of  childhood's  ringlets  upon  her  knee. 
The  arch  little  face  looked  up  with  glee  : 
"For  McKinley  and  Santa  Klaus!" 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 


Xoftiest  THflorfc. 


FROM  the  magnet-touch  of  the  great  To-day 
That  tosses  them  up  to  their  starry  way 
The  flags  are  writing  along  the  sky 
In  the    quivering  Red    and  White  and  Blue 

(The  Liberty-ink  that  nations  sue) 
The  loftiest  word  in  the  circling  hum 
Of  Life  —  that  volume  of  smile  and  sigh  : 
AMERICANUS  SUM  ! 

July  4th. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


POEMS  OF  NA  TURE. 


ITbe 


u 


P! 


Through  the  dew-light  when  Dawn  holds  her  cup 

To  the  rim  of  the  scarlet  sun, 

O'er  the  sparkles  that  float  and   run 

To  a  zenith  whose  breath's  begun — 

Up! 


Up! 

With  thy  beak  in  that  Deep,  in  a  wine 

Whose  brim  is  a  blooming  divine, 

Up  welling  for  this  thirst  of  thine 

To  mount  the  blue  Infinite  line — 

Up! 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

Up! 

O'er  the  woodlands  that  fill   their  green   cup 

With  the  gurgle  of  birds  and  streams, 

With  the  sunlight  in  tangled  beams, 

The  forest's  dawn-echo  of  dreams — 

Up! 

Up! 

The  thunderous  octaves  of  ocean, 

The  Infinite's  epic  to  man, 

Grow  lessening  and  less.     The  blue  span 

A  vaporous  streak,  thinning — wan — 

Up! 

Up! 

The  shimmer  of  silver  worlds,   star  flight, 

Falls  a  cloud  wreath  on  azure  light, 

Up  !   thy  wild  wing  aspires   the   height, 

What  margins  of  mystery  in  sight  f 

Up! 


POEMS  OF  NA  TURE. 

Up! 

And  thy  shower  of  song  in  the  cup 

Which  to  mortal  lips  is  given 

For  a  moment  of  unveiled  heaven — 

The  cry  of  an  utmost  Eden  ! 

Up! 


103 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


In  tbe  ©rcbarfc. 

FULL-DRESS  the  apple-tree  ladies, 
Pink  glistenings  on  their  heart, 
Wide-spread  society's  flounces, 

The  orchard's  uncaptured  art — 
For  the  bumble-bee  band  is  humming. 

Sen  or  Lark  has  sung  first  solo, 
"Where  did  it  reach?"   and  low 

The  breezes  stammer,  breathless  : 
"Only  the  lark  doth   know"— 
And  the  clouds  are  pale  with  that  echo. 

Miss   Hawthorne  in  grand  tier  boxes, 
Peeps,  pink, — a  glance  over  there, 
She  sees  her  colors  are  burning  : 

Mr.   Robin's   boutonniere ! 
And  the  bumble-bee  band   is  humming. 
104 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

Now  Baritone   Bobolink's  roulade 

Is   met  with  a  rain  of  cheers, 
The  star-flowers'  eyes  grow  misty, 
The  buttercups  hide  their  tears, 
And  the  bumble-bee  band  is  sobbing  ! 

Intermezzo.     Full-dress  ladies 
Salute    (Eden's  manners  fine), 

Their  powdered  heads  bend  together 

As  if  they  were  taking  wine — 
And  the  bumble-bee  band  is  drinking. 

But  once  more  a  solo  maddens — 

"Where  did  it  reach!"    and  low 
The  Orchard  whispers,   trembling : 

"Only  the  lark   doth  know." 
But  a  world  is  held  with  that  echo  ! 


105 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


•Robin's  "Hew  Song. 

TILTING  on  the  hawthorne 
White,  with  love  of  May, 
Robin  climbs  his  ladder : 

Ladder-trills  of   lay  ; 
Brown  beak  dipped  in  summer, 

Heart  as  red  as  rose, 
Bud  that  on  her  lattice 
In  the  Mav-breeze  blows. 


At  her  lattice-window 
Where  the  linnet   builds, 

Where  the  vines  are  glistening 
In   the  dawn's  sun-rills, 

Waits  my  ladye  Wynneth 
Fair  as  dawn's  pale  flush 

106 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

When  the  sun's  wild  wooing 
Wakes  a  crimson  blush. 

Robin  waits,  and  watches 

(Ah,  that  brown  eye  keen  !) 
The  fair  ladye  Wynneth 

At   the  casement's  green  ; 
Slowly  through  the  hedge-rows 

Starred  with  flecks  of  sun, 
Rides  Sir  Knight,  rides  slowly, 

Morn's  but  just   begun  ! — 

Robin  !    what's  that  madness 

In  the  sudden  verse 
From  thy  red   heart   trembling? 

Song,  the  larks  rehearse. 
Robin's  caught,  and  tasted 

Her  first  kiss,   above, 
Tossed   from  casement-window, 

Her  first   kiss  of  love  ! 

107 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


^fountain. 


From   the  Arabic. 

AFAR,  I   behold   the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  white  rose  rise   o'er  the  garden's 

queens 

Ivike  thy  moonlight-self  o'er  the  Torrid,  love. 
Hastening,  I  hear  the  white  rose  speak, 
Lulling  like  leaves  of  thy  moonlight-voice 
When  thy  lips  o'erpetal  my  parched  lips,  love. 


108 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Ube  Wbite  TCose. 

ON   that   first  blush  of   Eden 
When  the  moon  looked  in 
At  the  love-glow  of  the  garden 

Burned  his  gaze  to  win 
lyove  like  that  deep  of   Heaven 
When  the  moon  looked  in. 

On  two  unfolding  rose-lips 
When  the  moon  looked  in 

Stayed   his  ivory  light,  infolding, 
"All   thy  life  I  win!" 

White  is  the  rose  forever, 
For  the  moon  looked  in. 


109 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


ZTbe 


kOWARDS  the  moon's  cruse  it  leaps, 

it   bends  and   drinks, 
And,   quaffing   heaven,  desire 

with  distance  links. 


T 


POEMS  OF  NA  TURE. 


Cereus. 


THE  stars  are  out  and  the  green-lipped  moon 
in  shroud. 

The  wind  that's  knocking,  soul,  at  thy  door? 
Along  the  marge  the  moan  of  the  sea, 
Circumference  of  spheric  agony, 

What  knell  is  knocking,  soul,  o'er  and  o'er? 
The  world  is  out  in  wake  of  the  skeleton  cloud. 

Thy  Hope  is  out,  soul,  hell  is  a-  lit  and  a-leap. 
God  over  gods  of  hell  #  #  #  my  white  face  in 
their  deep? 

On  a  branch  of   the  world  a  silver  star  ! 
A  flake  from  the  foam  that  the  moonbeams  are 
As  they  crawl  into  cadence  over  the  bar 
That's  haunted  with  shriek  of  lost  souls  afar? 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

God   over  gods  of   hell   *  *  *   my  white   face 
that   they  reap  ! 

On  a  branch  of   the  world  a  silver  star  ! 
From  pavement  untrodden  but   by  God, 
Glassing,  alone,  the  great  antiphons, 
Petal  on  petal,  pearled,  spheric  tones 
That  wake  from  the  opal  word  of  God  ; 

On  a  branch  of  the  world  a  silver  star 
Tinged  with  angels  ! — not   far,  not   far  ! 

On  a  branch  of  the  world  a  silver  star, 

Soul  of  my  soul   *   *    #   in  this  cosmic  war 
Wrenched,  beckoned,  wreathed,  a  door  that's 

ajar 

For  the  yellow  laugh  of  devils  that  are — 
Soul  of  my  soul,  in  thy  whitening  fight 
Ponder   it,  down  on  thy  knees  to-night 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

As  the  devil's  dice  rattles  farther,  a-far, 
Falls  through  the  black  for  the  nations'  toss- 
that' s  war — 

Soul,  that  art  gripping  on  God  to-night, 
On  a  branch  of  thy  world   this  silver  star 
Tinged  with  angels— not  far,  not  far— 
Upbreathes  their  song-sea,  its  enringing  God, 
A  word  in  the  wake  of  His  step  star-shod  ! 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Centripetal. 

EVERENCE   for  the  atom,   dew-drop, 
1 V     Shaping  self  in   spheric   order, 
Reverence   for  the  soul   begetteth, 
For  that  supreme   work,    God's   Human  : 
Dawn   of  Eden   on  the   forehead, 
Dawn   of  selPs  august   revealments, 
"God's  own   Infinite   within   me, 
Destiny  swings   in   her  portals 
To  my  will."     The   ages   prove  it. 
Once,   in   wing-sweep  o'er   the   Azure, 
It  is  said   the   grave   archangels 
Held  the   hand   a   frolic  cherub 
Stretched   towards  a   drop   of  fire-mist, 
Golden   dew-light   down   the   pathways 
Constellations  tread.     The  cherub 
Stretched   his  hand   towards   the   sparkle  : 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

"Little   ball!   a   game!   I'll   toss  it!" 
Leaped   the   word   of  lit   archangel : 
"Son!     Hold    thy    hand!     And    kneel  \-The 
Earth!" 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Ube 


A  MELLOW   delight   is   the  meadow 
Mad   with   May, 
Through   the   green   heave  the   wind's 

Singing   its   way, 
Unfolding   and   blowing 

In  riot  and   roam 
On   hedge-row  and   hill-top 

Its  silvering  foam, 

Through  tint  and    through   patter  of  summer 
shower, 

Mayflower  ! 

A-dream  was  the   Blue   of  the   midnight, 

Dream  of  Day, 
Through   the  Star-weave  the  gold's 

Mirrored  in   May. 

116 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

Upholding  its  tapers 

Of  light   on   the  land 
The  buttercups  glister 

On  violet  strand, 
Through  rose  of  the  sunset  and  rhyme  of  shower, 

Star-flower ! 

A-dream  was  the  nebulous  ocean 

One  gray  Day. 
Through  the  green  heave  a  ship's 

Ploughing  its  way, 
Painting  the  Infinite 

With  soul-prompted  star, 
A  sail  'gainst   God's  azure 

Grows  over  the  bar  ! 

O'er  rocks  and  o'er  storm-beat  one  crystal  comes, 
The  blossom  whose  hues  are  a  nations'  homes : 
Mayflower ! 


POEMS  OF  NA  TURE. 


DAWN  of  her  tangled  strains 
May-breezes  babbled  of  through  flushing 

lanes ; 

Day   of  her   harmony, 
Heaven    bending    deep :    ' '  Thy    warm,    sweet 

eyes  for  me  ;" 

Night  of  her  bloom,   moon-led, 
June  lifteth  up  her   lips,  a   rose,    love-fed. 


118 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


pour  Bile. 

Cupidon  s*  asseyait 

Dans  iin  jardin  de  pense'es, 
De  son  aile  plante  une  plume  : 

"Petit  arbre  pour  V 'enchanter  /" 


119 


POEMS  OF  NA  TURE. 


Her  (Bfrfcle. 

IT   is  an   orbit  in  whose  zone  a  star, 
Her  woven   heart-beats'    tune, 
Moves  with   the  melody  of  gods  afar 
In  permanence  of  June. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


?Her  (BirMe  "dnclaspefc. 

AS    when   a   goddess   turns   the   lock 
On   her  illumined   lands   of  night, 
The   traveller  worn   for  one   sweet   rest 
Gleaming  afar,    like    Naiad-light 
On  waters   chiming  with   death's   clock — 

Sees  haven  !    through  moon-dawn  of  her 
breast. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


H  IRose. 

A    BREATH   of   God's  summer, 
1   V      O   crimsoning   new-comer 

Whom   mortals  call   a   rose? 
A   spirit-plumed   maiden, 
A   moment  pulse-laden 

With   heaven's  red   lip   that   blows. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Ube  poet's  Winnings, 

AS  THOUGHT  by  thought  drops  like  the 
silver's  seven 

On   rosary,  along   the  poet's  vision, 
He   kneels   and  listens  still  within  the  Elysian 
Where   roses   rhyme    their    lyric    breath    with 
Heaven . 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Ube  ftarnafe 


DOWN   the  colossal  majesty 
Of   Karnak's  road  I  rove, 
Pillared  on  splendor  loom   the  forms 

Of  gods,    the   Theban  Jove, 
The   sacrifice,    the  mystic  rite — 

Vague  hieroglyphs  of   heaven 
Foreshadowing   ecstacy   beyond 

The   sacred   columns  seven. 
The  vocal   glooms  of  solitude, 

The   thunderous  silence   speaks, 
The   roll   of  ages  mounts, — its  voice 

The  soul   of   man.     It  seeks 
Some  boon   from   awful   Amon-Ra : 

"To  me,    thou   Sun-god,    come!" 

The  shadows   sweep   the   solitudes, 
124 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 
The  fervent  lips    are  dumb. 

5fC  5|C  5}C  5(C 

On  the  still  breast  of  Heaven's  blue, 

Anchored   in   seas  of  light, 
Crown  of  the  column's  majesty, 

The  lotus   floats   in   sight, 
The  lotus-lily  to  the   sun 

Lifts  lip,  and  has  the  god's  kiss  won  ! 


125 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


TCbe  Bopptian  ©belisfe. 


STERN  staying  Index  on  the  clanging  turn 
Of  dappled  Time,  pointing  to  One  —  man's 


bourn. 


126 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Ube  Egyptian  ©belisfe. 

ii 

HAT  word  of  old  stayed  thy  bright  bound 
towards  firmaments  of  One, 
Thou  mystic  fount  from  fathomless, 

thou  Prism  of  the  sun ! 


W 


127 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


TRevele. 

Je  monte,   et  je  vois 

Sur  les  ailes  de  /'  Amour 
L1  horizon   qui  se  cache 

Pour  les  autres  en  plein  jour. 


128 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


jfor  TObom? 

THE  misted  moon  had  bared   her  breast. 
The  star-strong  steel  of  warriors  seven 
Anointed  in  the  sunset's  crest, 

Waits  maddened,  trembling  on  Heaven's  rim. 

Her  smiling  tips 
With  fleur  de-lis  their  lance.      Still  dim, 

Unquaffed   those  lips, 
They  wildly  stare  upon  Madonna-maid  in  Heaven. 


129 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


UransfiQuratfon, 

i. 

THE  sacred  raiment  I  put  off 
So  soon  her  smile  hath  gone 
That  clothed   me   with   that  clime   that    holds 
The  deathless  rose  of  dawn. 


130 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


{Transfiguration. 

ii. 

SHE  comes,  my  lady  comes. 
I    tremble,  I,  a    man. 

Yet  when    her  lips  cross  my  soul's  sill,  I 
Know  what   Immortals  can  ! 


131 


POEMS  OF  NA  TURE. 

©ne  /IDoonlfgbt. 

From  the  Persian. 

HE  kissed  a  crescent  on  my  lips, 
Half-circle  sweet,  if  small, 
It  burns  a  Heaven  upon  the  night — 
It  holds  an  Orient's  All. 


132 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


a  prater, 

SAY  ye  one  word  down  the  dread  silences, 
O  angels  great  of  God  who  bend  and  lift 
Those  murmurous  vesture-folds  of  Time 
Whose  voices  stir  from  out  an  Infinite ; 
And  give  to  soul,  not  sense,  one  thrill  of  Him 
The  Word,  who  waits  within  the  Eternal  Veil 
With  eyes  intent  upon  our  manhood's  life 
In  all  its  leap  and  lift,   its  strife,   its  storm, 
Its  currents  counting  slow  through  the  great  dark 
To  that  lit  Vast  whose  stars  are  harbor-lights. 
On  manhood's  pulse  with  all  its  possible, 
lyift,  messengers  of  God,   one  thrill  of  Him 
Whose  eyes  are  vistas  of  man's  ultimate — 
For  lo,  in  His,  our  .veins  do   rhyme  ! 


133 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


H  flDeetinQ.* 

HE  stands  to-day  upon  the  street, 
The  Infinite  street  of  many    lights, 
Shadows   have  sunk   into   the   night — 
Shadows,    and   the    Four   Hundred   lights. 

Silence   along   the   Infinite   Street — 
The   burning  gaze  of  the    Expanse 

Bends   but   one   way ;   upon   two  men 

Who  meet.     There's  silence  in   the  advance. 

Of  moments  in   the   Eternal   Day 

("Good   Form"  obtains  in  highest  Heaven), 

One  of  these  men   is  speaking,    see ! 

A   hush   through   the  great  Trumpets  seven. 

•  One  of  Mr.  McAllister's  maxims  is  said  to  have  been  :  "  If 'you 
see  a  man  with  a  shabby  coat,  cross  the  street  to  avoid  him." 

134 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

He  stands  upon  the  Eternal  Street 
Of  wide-ascending,  argent  light, 

A   dazzle    "Patriarchs"  never  dreamed, 
Nor   Prophets,    nor  a   Pope   in   white. 

He  stands  upon  the  Eternal  Street, 
The  radiance  is  of  hue  unpriced — 

What  form  is  this  that  faces  him? 
The  poor  storm-shattered  serge  of  Christ ; 

The  Man  who  wore  the  "shabby  coat" 
For  the  long  space  of  heavy  years 

For  this  man,  all  men.  Once,  cast  out 
By  a  "Four  Hundred's"  cultured  sneers. 

What  canst   thou   do,    O   soul  ?     Decide ! 

He  faces   thee,    the   Nazarene. 
Thou  canst   not   "cross"    the   Eternal   Street, 

Thou   canst   not   shirk   that   Face   once  seen. 


135 


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